Late night, early morning

Lights firing inside my head,


perhaps, afraid one day they will go out.


I follow her constant breathing, with envy at each effortless sigh,


hoping soon my mind will wander or be distracted by morpheus touch.


I turn, torturing myself,


shifting weight.


Processing, clearing, exploring yesterday and the day ahead.


I hope for rest, but a pretension lives on,


where this malady is some inspirational disease.


I fear it is a curse.

 

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